


hoist with his own petard

by sophiegaladheon



Category: Babylon 5
Genre: (of background OCs), Attempted Murder, Character Death, Chocolate Box Exchange, Gen or Pre-Slash, M/M, Mind Control, Profanity, Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-10-24 04:37:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17697773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophiegaladheon/pseuds/sophiegaladheon
Summary: When a rendezvous with an informant goes south Garibaldi runs into the last person he ever wants to see.  But something's up with Bester, and there might be something more to their encounter than meets the eye.





	hoist with his own petard

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kangeiko](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kangeiko/gifts).



> Happy chocolatebox everyone! The request was for Bester/Garibaldi, and I went with the prompt for what if the compulsion that makes Garibaldi rescue Bester if he's hurt ran both ways. 
> 
> The title is from _Hamlet_ , because I had to.

It’s a stupid idea from the start. An unreliable informant, an unlikely lead. A dangerous risk. He knows it’s a stupid idea, too. So, it’s with the sullen resignation of the disappointed but unsurprised that the only thing Garibaldi—as the burn of a PPG round creases his shoulder before slicing through a bundle of electrical and steam conduits and floods the dirty, narrow Downbelow corridor with the spray of hot sparks and hotter steam—thinks is _oh goddamn it all_. Followed by a few more, less family-friendly, turns of phrase.

Clutching his smarting shoulder and throwing himself behind a pile of refuse, Garibaldi grits his teeth to keep the stream of profanity from escaping into the open air. Both pain and frustration work to cloud his thoughts as much as the escaping steam obscures the corridor, but he’s been his line of work for a long time. Experience if nothing else keeps his hands steady—the uninjured left now clutching his own PPG—as he calms his breathing and listens. 

A set of rapid footsteps approaches his hiding place. The steam filling the corridor is hot, and Garibaldi can’t tell if the sweat dripping down his forehead is from that or from the tension, but either way he dares not move to wipe it. There was only one shot, from behind him, poorly aimed and without a follow-up. For all that screamed inexperienced amateur, there’s no reason to go making himself an easy target, particularly when he’s injured and with the terrain working to no one's benefit (and certainly not to his). 

The footsteps even out as they approach, becoming calm and deliberate. Not fast, not slow, almost casual but with more purpose. They don’t slow as they pass, and Garibaldi catches a glimpse of his assailant’s face—obscured by the steam, but perfectly in portrait, eyes fixed dead ahead. The even footfalls continue until they turn at the end of the corridor, proceeding off into sectors unknown at that same even clip.

The corridor is quiet except for the hiss of escaping steam and the occasional snap of the misfiring sparks from the damaged conduits, but decades of experience lend caution as Garibaldi pries himself up from his crouch. There are no other signs of movement as he steps out from his dubious hiding spot, but the lighting is dim and the shadows are long and dark.

“If you’re done playing around like a foolish child, might I request you come this way? Your assailant’s friends are numerous and heading in this direction.”

The familiar, mild-mannered voice cuts through him like a razor, sharp and deep, and Garibaldi turns with a snap, PPG raised. His hand is shaking, he notices, just faintly. The familiar presence of his sidearm a comforting weight in his palm even though he knows he cannot fire and he lets his finger slowly caress the trigger guard in a nervous, grounding gesture.

Angry words and accusations clamor through his mind and behind his clenched teeth, but he only grits out a tense “what the hell are you doing here?” before he forces himself to stop. It never goes his way when he argues with Bester, all their confrontations ending with the other having been ten steps ahead before they had even begun. (Of course, that’s what you got for trying to outsmart a telepath, and one of the most ruthless ones in the Psi Corps at that, but that didn’t mean Garibaldi was going to stop trying. He was just working on adjusting his strategy.) 

“As I said, Mr. Garibaldi,” Bester replies, his face twisted into a displeased scowl, “I want you to come this way. Unless you would prefer to stay there and be shot. And I guarantee you the half a dozen thugs headed this way will have the advantage over you in numbers, even assuming they don’t have better aim than their compatriot. Who already managed to damage you.” 

Garibaldi doesn’t believe for a minute that Bester just happened to be walking through Downbelow and stopped to give him a hand, but the words were followed by the approaching sound of heavy boots on bulkheads in the distance. In all honesty, he would rather take a firefight with an unknown number of armed assailants over being in Bester’s presence in literally any context, but he’s already down an arm and given Bester is Bester it was probably safer for everybody else that he find out what Bester is doing on the station and what he wants before someone or multiple someones ends up dead.

Without holstering his PPG he heads down the corridor towards Bester. As he gets closer, Garibaldi can see that the usually put-together paragon of the Psi Corps looks disheveled, his uniform in disarray, even as the usual posture and arrogance attempt to mask the disorder.

“In a rush this morning?” Garibaldi asks, looking Bester up and down as he gestures for him to walk on ahead and unable to resist the jab. 

Something that might be annoyance and might be embarrassment flickers across Bester’s face before his features resume their usual mix of neutral and condescending. He doesn’t reply, but he does leave the way for Garibaldi to follow down the corridor.

Normally, Garibaldi would give Bester crap for his terrible survival instincts—a willingness to turn your back on an armed man who hates you isn’t exactly a fantastic tactic, even if you are an incredibly powerful telepath—but between the block in his brain that he doesn’t particularly want to bring up (or think about) and the fact that he would never, ever, willingly give his back to Bester and they would have stood in that spot until the end of time if the other man had insisted on it, Garibaldi figures that the arrogance is pretty well justified. 

Even if it makes him want to punch Bester’s stupid, smug-ass face in. Not that he can, damn it all. 

The corridors of Downbelow wind their way out before them, deserted. Even the usual hunched figures of the sector’s hopeless and destitute have disappeared into the woodwork. Garibaldi wonders if that is an effect of the attempted murder or of something of Bester’s doing.

“What are you doing here, since when are you even on the station?”

“That isn’t really your concern, now is it? After all, you’re not chief of security anymore. Then again, given your new position, shouldn’t you already know these things? I did wonder about that, you in an intelligence role.”

Garibaldi bites the inside of his cheek, hard. The desire to snap back at Bester’s mocking tone and taunting words is nearly overwhelming, but he catches the deflection hidden in the barbs. It isn’t even hard to spot, which in and of itself is unusual.

“You didn’t answer the question.” There’s no sense in playing at subtlety. It’s never been his strong suit, and Bester can read him like a book if he so wants. Blunt and straightforward really is the only way he can approach things with him, else risk getting turned around and lost in the maze of taunts and verbal misdirection.

“And what question was that?”

“Don’t play stupid, it’s unbecoming. What are you doing here?”

In the dim lighting of Downbelow Garibaldi can just barely see Bester flinch. Curiouser and curiouser. He must be getting somewhere. 

“I happened to be passing through and you seemed to be in need of some assistance. I’m afraid this is all a complete coincidence.”

A laugh bubbles up from the twisted, anxious mess of Garibaldi’s stomach. “That is the most ridiculous lie I have ever heard and it’s frankly outrageous for you to expect me to believe it.”

“You don’t have to believe it, Mr. Garibaldi, it’s the truth.”

“Now that sounds more like something you’d say, but I still don’t believe you and I want a satisfactory answer.”

“I don’t know what to tell you. I happened to be here. You were in need of help. I acted accordingly. There is no big secret here, no conspiracy.”

“Yeah, right.” The corridor dead-ends sharply in a T-junction and the pair paused for a moment before heading to the right. 

They’re closer together now, and Garibaldi can look over and see Bester’s face in profile. His fingers tighten reflexively on the PPG he’s still holding in his hand, the sight of the man he hates more than any in the known galaxy burning in him like a banked fire spiking hot. But Garibaldi has spent enough time looking at, studying, obsessing over Bester that he can tell at this close range that the usual Psi Corps mask is showing some cracks.

There’s a furrow between Bester’s eyes and his jaw is clenched and tense. Between that and the uniform, something is definitely up. And like any good cop (or wronged man with a vendetta) Garibaldi can’t not push. 

“There aren’t any unlicensed telepaths on the station,” he says, putting on his best friendly interrogator voice, “you and your boys made sure of that the last time you paid us a visit. And there’s nothing in Downbelow for the tourists if you just stopped by for a bit of R&R. Anyway. You’re not really the Good Samaritan type. So, forgive me if I don’t believe you when you say you just so happened to be passing by and decided to help me out of the goodness of your heart. Frankly, I don’t think you have one.”

“That’s a very nice speech, Mr. Garibaldi, are you going somewhere with it?”

“Yes, what the hell do you want with me this time?”

Bester stops, pivoting on his heel so quickly Garibaldi almost slams into him. “Believe me, Mr. Garibaldi, right now I want nothing more than to have absolutely nothing to do with you. Today you are the bane of my existence and I want nothing more than to get out of this godforsaken sector and back to the matters I came to the station to deal with, but today, of all days, you had to go and get yourself targeted by a hit squad.”

The flood of words ceases as suddenly as it began, Bester’s glare still drilling into his face with venomous intensity. It’s probably the most honest emotion Garibaldi has ever seen him express, and isn’t that a strange thought to be having about a man he despises.

“Frankly I don’t see how it’s any of your business how I do my job,” Garibaldi says, breaking the silence, “and you still haven't explained why you’re in Downbelow, interfering with my assassins. I’d rather think you’d give them a hand, given the choice.”

Bester flinches more noticeably and Garibaldi does not have the mental energy right now to try and parse the implications of that. He hopes to god that it doesn’t mean that he’s going to have to face the idea of Bester actually experiencing human emotions.

“But we should get out of here and talk to station security since I don’t particularly feel like dying today. If you would, Mr. Bester,” he gestures sarcastically down the corridor, “lead the way.”

There’s a moment when Garibaldi thinks Bester is going to do something. Keep arguing, refuse to take point, fry Garibaldi’s brain telepathically, something. But then it passes and the Psi Cop mannequin mask is back in place and Bester turns down the narrow hall with only a “very well,” and a tug at the hem of his still-disheveled tunic.

They don’t talk anymore, after that, and the corridors are still strangely deserted, the only sounds coming from their footsteps and the station itself. It’s unnerving, Garibaldi thinks. Living on a space station surrounded by the countless other inhabitants, you get used to the noise. The absence is jarring. It screams of wrongness, of a threat sensed but unseen.

The corridor opens up into a wider room, filled with boxes and smelling of semi-decomposed refuse. Bester strides ahead, a gap opening up between them. There’s a rustle and a creak and Garibaldi has a split second to realize he’s surrounded before four assailants—on in front, one behind, one on each side—throw off their coverings and raise their PPGs at him.

He raises his own weapon to retaliate, knowing there’s no way he’ll be able to defend himself against all of them with how he’s positioned in the room but hopeful he’ll be able to do at least a little damage. He curses Bester for leading him into an ambush, knowing there’s no way the telepath could have missed it, curses himself for following so blindly a man he knew to be untrustworthy. 

The collision of his face and the slab of cold metal bulkhead jolts Garibaldi from the increasingly venomous ramblings of his panicked thoughts, palms scraping on the rough, unfinished surface as he presses himself as flat as he can to the ground.

His heart is pounding in his chest like he’d just run the length of the station as the sounds of four PPGs firing simultaneously echo from over his head. The four almost-but-not-quite synchronized _thumps_ as his attackers fall lifeless to the ground register slowly, like his thoughts have to move through molasses before they can process.

Near-death experiences are nothing new to Garibaldi. At his age, in the career field he’s chosen, they aren’t exactly a regular occurrence, but he’s had more than his fair share. But now, here, this, it isn’t just the brush with his own mortality that has the adrenaline surging through his system, has him forcing himself to take measured even breaths not to hyperventilate. 

That loss of control, the few seconds between him walking into the middle of the room under his own power and him pressed face down on the bulkhead that had him relegated to the backseat of his own consciousness, had sent him straight back to that god-awful Martian transport tube. When everything had come into sharp, vivid, horrible focus, and for the first time he had realized exactly what Bester was capable of.

“Get the hell out of my head.” The words are spit through gritted teeth, somewhat slurred from how his face is still pressed to the cold sheet of metal below him, but Garibaldi does his best to infuse every ounce of his anger and disgust into them.

“Would you prefer to be dead?” The words are once more in that measured and vaguely disinterested tone that Garibaldi so despises about Bester.

He scowls as he pushes himself to his feet, whatever neurological impulse that was keeping him pinned to the ground dissipating like it never was, and, despite the futility, points his PPG at Bester.

“Really? Do we have to do this again? I thought I had explained matters to you quite clearly.”

“I don’t know why you’re here. And I don’t know what you’re game is. But stay the hell out of my head.”

“Or what?”

The question of the hour, every hour.

“I’ll think of something.”

Bester’s smile is condescending, but it inspires Garibaldi’s desire to shoot him marginally less than it usually does. Maybe he’s developing an immunity. Or maybe he’s just tired. “I’m sure you will, Mr. Garibaldi.” He gestures towards the exit. “Shall we?”

* * *

Between getting patched up in medical, giving his statement on both of the murder attempts to station security, and detailing the order of events to President Sheridan personally, it’s late by the time Garibaldi gets back to his quarters. He contemplates taking a shower, but in the end drops into bed without, forgoing even his now-customary nightcap in his exhaustion.

But despite how tired he is, Garibaldi can’t sleep. The events of the day play out over and over in his mind. It isn’t that he almost died—well, it mostly isn’t. He’ll get to dealing with his old friend the near-death experience once he can get past the feeling that he’s missing something.

He replays every aspect of his encounter with Bester. The man’s unusual disorder, his evasiveness, his presence in Downbelow. The fact that he saved Garibaldi’s life twice, even if he did endanger it as well. The puzzle pieces twist and turn in his mind, never seeming to click together quite right. He never even managed to get an answer for why Bester was on the station at all, beyond “something for Commander Lochley” from Sheridan. 

It’s the dead of night and Garibaldi’s half asleep when he manages to put the whole thing together. He bursts out laughing at the insanity of the idea, the sound echoing loudly in the quiet confines of his quarters. 

There were rules. Bester had programmed him. He could hate Bester, could despise him, but he couldn’t kill him and he couldn’t through inaction let him come to harm. After Bester first told him about the Asimov rules Garibaldi had looked up the science fiction writer who had created them. It hadn’t helped him come up with any ideas on how to break the block, but Garibaldi considered himself pretty familiar with the rules of robotics by now.

And with twentieth-century media in general, so he was pretty well versed on the concept of dramatic irony. And the idea of Bester getting whammied with a reciprocal version of the restrictions he put on Garibaldi was the funniest thing Garibaldi had heard in a long time. 

It sounded ridiculous, but it all fit. Why else would Bester go out of his way to make sure Garibaldi wasn’t harmed? What else would rattle the usually so unflappable Psi Cop to the point of an angry outburst?

Garibaldi hiccoughs. He bites his lip to stop laughing, but the giggles keep slipping through. _The spider got caught in his own net, and now he’s trapped here with us flies_.

The smile he grins into his pillow is toothy and sharp, but the sleep he gets that night is better than any he’s gotten in weeks.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed!


End file.
